In 1990, right around there, I was writing some grim songs. My second marriage was going down, slowly but surely, and what was coming out of my pen was, well, looking back, kinda depressing. One song, “Knocks the Heart”, was a favourite of mine, however sad....
“All our friends in the neighborhood,
They see us walkin’ by, smilin’, lookin’ good
Peekin’ out from their window couch,
They see a beautiful lady and her perfect spouse
But they don’t see the tears when you close your heart on me
And they don’t know that conflict is our only history
And lover, when you’re on my arm and flash contented eyes,
They believe our masquerade, they see our disguise and...........
It knocks the heart out of me, it knocks the soul out of me
We always manage to sabotage romance
It knocks the heart out of me, now honey don’t you agree
Sometimes you wanna be free”
I recorded the song in Seattle with my friend Larry at his studio. Larry plays keys and the track was very pretty, albeit morose.
In those days, still ultra busy with my bakery business, I was sending songs away for publishing, hoping for someone else to publish, and record them. I sent “Knocks the Heart” to several publishers, and though none of them published the song, I did receive a lot of feedback. Most publishers who passed had something good to say, and some were kind enough to send a critique.
One publisher, who wrote a particularly lengthy and instructive critique, suggested that I strike the word “spouse”. His criticism included the sentence, “spouse is not a song word.” It struck me funny, because, although I did get his point, “spouse is not a song word”, to a word guy, is a great phrase. I never forgot it.
Anyway, suffice it to say, I haven’t been very good about keeping words like “spouse”, and other “non-song words”, out of my songs. In fact, over my songwriting career, I think I may have broken the song word mold. What really got me going on this topic is that I wrote a new song this week, titled “A Thousand Songs”, which includes the word “modicum”. I love that. If you pick up my next CD, “Who Come Down?”(there will be two new CDs out soon), you will hear me crooning the words "winnowing", "pontificating", "diatribe", "quiescently", and "Tillamook", among others. But I promise, there isn’t even one song as weepy as “Knocks the Heart”.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
The Ugly Lamp Museum
The highways and backroads of this country are lined with a plethora of oddball roadside attractions. When we travel, we love to keep our eye out for weird shit along the way, and even seek some out, by taking along a stack of books which highlight many of these nutty attractions, like The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame, which we actually visited, and totally loved. Our tour guide, an older fellow with a faraway look in his eyes, had so much trouble staying on topic, I don’t think any of us in the group had any idea what he was talking about. Priceless. One never knows what fun experience one might find at an attraction like that.
Or take, for another example, “JFK’s Twine Ball”, in Lake Nebagamon, Wisconsin, where a man named James Frank Kotera began saving string in 1979, and today hosts a roadside attraction where his twine ball sits proudly outside, under a nice gazebo, you know, to protect his precious ball from the elements. Imagine one’s glee upon arriving at such a venue, and the awe one would feel upon gazing at such a thing! JFK’s twine ball, and other shall we say, quirky attractions, are yours for the viewing at a cool website named roadsideamerica.com.
So it probably would come as no surprise that I count myself among the persons who would create such an attraction, and stand proudly by it’s entrance, handing out leaflets and half price coupons to encourage repeat visitors. Find me a dusty little small town on the highway, lemme toss up a quonset hut, fill it with, oh, I dunno, ugly lamps maybe, since I love them so, and set up an espresso machine, build a huge stucco ugly lamp outside, get me a business licence, and wait for the inevitable flood of customers. I’m onto something, right?
In 1998, maybe a year and a few months after Marie and I had met, and fallen madly in love, we were driving the neighborhood one day, and near our house, in the window of a store called, “Fairly Honest Bill’s”, I spied, what I have now come to believe, were the ugliest lamps in the history of man. Right up my alley. Two huge table lamps, shining in the sun, with huge ugly lampshades. I insisted that we go in to look, and Marie agreed. There, on the window shelf, in all their glory, stood the most scary and hideous lamps I had ever laid my eyes on. The body of the each lamp was also huge, maybe 12 inches in diameter, and in the shape of a conquistador, Cortez perhaps, or Ponce de Leon, sporting one a‘those conquistador hats. Later, I found them to be made of plaster, and painted with a faux finish to resemble bronze, very fakey, but totally cool. As my friend Stan would say, “Inside, I was screamin’”. These lamps, folks, were so ugly, that in the days that followed, I couldn’t keep my mind off them. But Marie and I left the store, and drove away, me, with my heart pounding.
A few days later, my Roadside Attraction Mentality got the best of me. When Marie was at work, I drove to Fairly Honest Bill’s, and bought the lamps. I took them home, and much to the pleasure of my step-son Blaine, who was 18 at the time, and just figuring out what a nut his future stepfather was, I removed the table lamps from our living room and installed the Cortez Monsters in their place, and turned them on. We sat back, Blaine and I, and made comments like, “Oh, they are so beautiful”, and “Oh, wait ‘til Marie sees them, she is gonna LOVE them”, and, “are those the most extroadinarily beautiful lamps on the planet, or what? Marie will be so pleased”. The decor, at that moment, in our home, became kind of a cross between “Old Portland Craftsman”, and Hideous Mediterranean”, or as my mother might call it, “Early Halloween”.
When Marie arrived home, her two 13 year old male roommates waited patiently for her to notice. Of course, when she saw them, she just gave us the look and put her head in her hands, which pleased us immensely. It was perfect. Blaine and I giggled over that for months. And every time we would mention it, remarking on the lamps beauty, and how we loved them so, Marie would come through by moaning and saying things like, “Thank God you moved those ridiculous lamps to the basement, Ric, I thought I might have to move,” which of course would make Blaine and I laugh all the harder.
There needs to be an ugly lamp museum in this world. As soon as I clear my schedule a bit, I am sure Marie will quit her job and help me do it. This is exciting. I’m gonna go tell her right now.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, September 16, 2005
DOPAMINE!
My friend, Warren St. John, was in town yesterday, to do a reading of his national best seller, “Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer, described as “a road trip into the heart of fan-mania”, at Powell’s Books. In a crowded room Warren spoke in some detail of his urgings to write the book, and then read a bit, much to the delight of the audience. It is a great and funny book, along the lines of Tony Horowitz’ “Confederates In The Attic”, or perhaps one of Bill Bryson’s engaging travelogues. It was a delight to see him.
“Rammer Jammer” takes the reader through a season of Alabama Football, (Warren’s home state), and provides relentlessly hilarious descriptions as he follows rabid Alabama fans from game to game in his own used RV, christened “The Hawg” for it’s overly thirsty gas tank. If you are a sport’s fan, and you like to laugh, get this book.
At our house, Marie read the book to us in the evening, to save us from yet another repeat of “House Hunters”, much to our pleasure, over a couple of weeks. It is such a joy to see one’s wife, or one’s son, with tears of laughter in their eyes, as the book provided for us.
After hearing Marie read the book, one little factoid kept coming back to me, as I pondered Warren's writing. Apparently, as explained in the book, neuroscientists, in an effort to more fully understand fan behavior, have performed some experiments with monkeys, whereby, they set up a sort of “game”. The monkeys were able to “win” apple juice, and other treats, and then, the testers would measure the reaction in the monkey’s brains, using some monkey brain measuring device, and discovered that, as the monkey’s “won” their treats, their levels of dopamine would rise markedly. This would lead one to believe that there is far more involved with a human’s love of sports than just a passing rah-rah for one’s home team or school team. It’s drugs!, er, one's own dopamine rush! Picture, if you will, for a moment, a pig pile of grown men, after winning the World Series, or a high school championship, or fans in the stands, celebrating with similar embraces, their war paint covered faces dripping with tears of victory. And I am not even going into those raging shirtless spiked up skull and cross drippin’ biker lookin’ maniacs in Oakland.
But hey, I love sports, I have played the most of them, and I love a victory just as much as the next guy, and if it’s about dopamine, bring it on. When I win, or my team wins, it feels good.
Anyway, fascinated by this whole issue, I wrote a song about it, and recorded it with my ace guitarist Tim Ellis, which will appear in it’s entirety on one of my two CDs, “Dubs On Trial”, to be released later this fall, 2005. Warren calls it the “anthem” to his book, which makes me feel like a winner. https://youtu.be/NMXWdOax3-g.
And here is Warren St. John's site .
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
David
It was spring of 1973, and I was a first time homeowner, there in Renton, Washington, a stone’s throw from Seattle, where I had landed after my band days, with my wife and two young daughters. The same Renton where Jimi Hendrix lies buried.
Long before the days of DIY, and Home Depot, I had a need to do all my own home improvements. I screwed up a lot, like the time I tried to cut the long sides of bi-fold doors with a small jigsaw, which of course was a disaster, since a person cutting with a jigsaw will never meet the needs of a door, which needs to be perfectly square and straight. Over the years, I have learned lots of DIY lessons this way. That time, my next door neighbor, who was a bit older, took pity, and helped me start over, using his table saw, but not before I had ruined four doors and had to buy more. Let’s just say, it wasn’t long after that, that I had my own table saw.
We lived on a pleasant little rural street, and had a sizeable piece of property, where our postage stamp size house stood. Being a creative sort, I set out to improve the property, and learned all sorts of gardening skills, like how to rent a rototiller, how to use one, and began my library of gardening books. Before long, I had a yard full of nastursiums and sturdy daisies, and even shrubs, including a long planting of arborvitae pyramidalis, which stood barely protruding from the soil, lining the property by the street. Years later, as I passed the house on a visit to Seattle, those little half-gallon trees had spread to form a solid wall 50 feet long by at least 10 feet high, and I breathed a sigh of completion.
The neighborhood was full of children, and was close to a grade-school, where my daughter Stacey went to kindergarten, when she turned 5. Since it was rural enough, back then, to be referred to as “out in the country”, it was extremely quiet, as I would dig new shrub holes, except for the shrieks and laughter of the many kids, on our street, and on streets nearby.
One of the older children, a tall, fair, muscular 14 year-old named David, who also owned a huge loud voice, took a liking to me, after being introduced to me by a neighbor, and stopped by frequently, as I gardened, to talk, and I would give him this and that to do, which he enjoyed. David’s father had died when he was 12, of a massive heart attack, and he once told me that he could recall running down the street after the ambulance, after they had picked up his father’s lifeless body. I never met his mother, but I spent a lot of time with David, and I thought he was a very innocent, good kid who definitely needed a buddy. He would stop by at some odd times, but I never did turn him away. We would invite him in, he would eat, watch tv, just sit there in his army jacket, size XXL.
I had acquired a small utility trailer, which would trail behind my soft green 1961 Volvo, when I went to pick up plants, barkdust, soil ammendments. One day, after David arrived to kill some time, I invited him to go along with me to the garden center, and we hooked up the trailer. We left the house, and traveled through the neighborhood, on a lovely Sunday morning, my only day off from my bakery job, along the tree lined streets, past the kids and dogs and basketball hoops, and eventually, past the grade school, where David had been a student before his graduation to Junior High. As we approached the school, David began to roll down his window. “I know those two girls”, he said, pointing to a hilltop by the school, where two young ladies moved away from us, on an expansive lawn. All of a sudden, and I swear this is the truth, David, with his huge man voice, wound up and hollered, at the top of his lungs, right there, right out the window of PTA member Ric Seaberg’s soft green Volvo, at these young ladies, and from the depths of his being,............
”HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY SNATCH !!!!!!!!!
At times like these, what IS person to do? I drove on, and I scolded David, oh, I dunno, maybe something like, “YOU IDIOT! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING”, but, in all honesty, I don’t really remember what I said. Suffice it to say, that I do remember, as I continued on in the car, being completely mortified. Eventually, squirming in my own private Idaho, I did envision myself, perhaps at a PTA meeting, or a Parent’s night at my daughter’s school, being pointed out by one of those young ladies, to her parents, as I entered my soft green Volvo, “That’s the guy in the car who yelled snatch at us, mom, that guy right there.”
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Long before the days of DIY, and Home Depot, I had a need to do all my own home improvements. I screwed up a lot, like the time I tried to cut the long sides of bi-fold doors with a small jigsaw, which of course was a disaster, since a person cutting with a jigsaw will never meet the needs of a door, which needs to be perfectly square and straight. Over the years, I have learned lots of DIY lessons this way. That time, my next door neighbor, who was a bit older, took pity, and helped me start over, using his table saw, but not before I had ruined four doors and had to buy more. Let’s just say, it wasn’t long after that, that I had my own table saw.
We lived on a pleasant little rural street, and had a sizeable piece of property, where our postage stamp size house stood. Being a creative sort, I set out to improve the property, and learned all sorts of gardening skills, like how to rent a rototiller, how to use one, and began my library of gardening books. Before long, I had a yard full of nastursiums and sturdy daisies, and even shrubs, including a long planting of arborvitae pyramidalis, which stood barely protruding from the soil, lining the property by the street. Years later, as I passed the house on a visit to Seattle, those little half-gallon trees had spread to form a solid wall 50 feet long by at least 10 feet high, and I breathed a sigh of completion.
The neighborhood was full of children, and was close to a grade-school, where my daughter Stacey went to kindergarten, when she turned 5. Since it was rural enough, back then, to be referred to as “out in the country”, it was extremely quiet, as I would dig new shrub holes, except for the shrieks and laughter of the many kids, on our street, and on streets nearby.
One of the older children, a tall, fair, muscular 14 year-old named David, who also owned a huge loud voice, took a liking to me, after being introduced to me by a neighbor, and stopped by frequently, as I gardened, to talk, and I would give him this and that to do, which he enjoyed. David’s father had died when he was 12, of a massive heart attack, and he once told me that he could recall running down the street after the ambulance, after they had picked up his father’s lifeless body. I never met his mother, but I spent a lot of time with David, and I thought he was a very innocent, good kid who definitely needed a buddy. He would stop by at some odd times, but I never did turn him away. We would invite him in, he would eat, watch tv, just sit there in his army jacket, size XXL.
I had acquired a small utility trailer, which would trail behind my soft green 1961 Volvo, when I went to pick up plants, barkdust, soil ammendments. One day, after David arrived to kill some time, I invited him to go along with me to the garden center, and we hooked up the trailer. We left the house, and traveled through the neighborhood, on a lovely Sunday morning, my only day off from my bakery job, along the tree lined streets, past the kids and dogs and basketball hoops, and eventually, past the grade school, where David had been a student before his graduation to Junior High. As we approached the school, David began to roll down his window. “I know those two girls”, he said, pointing to a hilltop by the school, where two young ladies moved away from us, on an expansive lawn. All of a sudden, and I swear this is the truth, David, with his huge man voice, wound up and hollered, at the top of his lungs, right there, right out the window of PTA member Ric Seaberg’s soft green Volvo, at these young ladies, and from the depths of his being,............
”HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY SNATCH !!!!!!!!!
At times like these, what IS person to do? I drove on, and I scolded David, oh, I dunno, maybe something like, “YOU IDIOT! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING”, but, in all honesty, I don’t really remember what I said. Suffice it to say, that I do remember, as I continued on in the car, being completely mortified. Eventually, squirming in my own private Idaho, I did envision myself, perhaps at a PTA meeting, or a Parent’s night at my daughter’s school, being pointed out by one of those young ladies, to her parents, as I entered my soft green Volvo, “That’s the guy in the car who yelled snatch at us, mom, that guy right there.”
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Monday, September 12, 2005
My CDs Project
I must apologize for my slowing posts, but with the tragedy in the south, honestly, I just haven’t felt like writing about my little life. That, and the fact that I am working my ass off, everyday, trying to get my CDs project completed. Two, yep, two CDs, to be released in the near future, as in maybe November 1, but I get a couple of weeks grace if that’s what it takes, okay? One is titled “Who Come Down?”, from a song of the same name, and the other is titled “Dubs On Trial”. Both will be slick, complete CD packages, and I am looking forward to coming home from errands one of these days, to find a bunch of boxes on my front porch, filled with the results of an enormous amount of time and energy. Of course, when that day comes, I am going to attempt to sell a few, and I would love to email you, if you are interested, to let you know when they are for sale, on CDBaby, or Amazon.com, or even directly from me, here at Ric Seaberg CD Central. If you have a sec, please add your name to my email list, on the home page of this site. Thanks!
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, September 02, 2005
Homeless
In the last few days, watching the news almost constantly, Marie and I have been overwhelmed by the tragic situation in New Orleans and beyond. My dear wife, whom I have sometimes called a News Junkie Empathy Sponge, may need therapy soon. There isn’t much I can say or do to help her as she frets over the tragedy of Katrina. I hold her hand, rub her head, take her to lunch. Our hearts are broken, and we fear for our fellow man. We can only hope that as the days go by, there will be better news, as thousands of people arrive to help. We send our love and prayers to all of the homeless, and others, helping with the disaster relief.
Myself, I hear words and phrases, coming to me from who knows where, words that someone who is experiencing the disaster first hand might say. Today, my friend Tim and I recorded a song I wrote yesterday, with those words and phrases. Click here to listen to “Home Again” in Hi-Fi (broadband)
Lo-Fi (dial-up) here
Or, if you promise to send $1.00 to the relief organization of your choice, download "Home Again" here
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Myself, I hear words and phrases, coming to me from who knows where, words that someone who is experiencing the disaster first hand might say. Today, my friend Tim and I recorded a song I wrote yesterday, with those words and phrases. Click here to listen to “Home Again” in Hi-Fi (broadband)
Lo-Fi (dial-up) here
Or, if you promise to send $1.00 to the relief organization of your choice, download "Home Again" here
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Bandon
A few years ago, Marie and I decided to vacation on the Southern Oregon Coast, somehwere near the town of Bandon, an area that Marie knows well, and loves, that little gal with her master’s degree in geography. I had been through the area many times, years ago, when I was traveling the coast with my old band, but had never come to appreciate it, blowing through the town of Bandon, I suppose, packin’ zzz’s in the bunk of our band vehicle. I was anxious to experience the area more properly, my geographer wife in tow.
When we travel, we have a few extras to consider, our Bichon Frises, for one thing. We love to have them with us, and as long as we are not flying to China, count on us to bring them along. But accomodations where pups are allowed are few, and then, one must never leave dogs, who may bark, for example, at the sightest provocation, in a motel room, and take the chance of disturbing other travelers. So we thought we’d try to find a beach house for rent, one which allows dogs.
In additon to our dogs’ needs, when we take Blaine, which is always, we need to find an accessible situation, since he uses a wheelchair. So I hit the internet to look for a nice accessible beach house which would also allow a couple of dogs.
Today I sit comfortably in the living room of the beach house we found to rent back then, where we are vacationing for our third year in a row. We love these accomodations, and Bandon. We are staying at The Historic Bandon River House, right on the Coquille River, just a few blocks from “old” downtown Bandon. It is an old store, actually, converted into a rental. Years ago, it was a cobbler’s store. I can almost fish the river from the house’s back porch. It is large, with lots of space for a person in a wheelchair. And the dogs, currently both snuggling to my thigh as I write, well, if they could speak English, I am certain they would share their approval. I take them out back, and tie them to the porch railing while I fish. They sit so quietly and calmly, rare for them, so I am convinced they are very content.
Damn, no fish yet. I’m workin’ on it. Maybe this evening. The guys from The Port of Bandon told me to sneak out onto their “no trespassing” dock, next door, after they go home, so I am going to go out later, and get my line into deeper water, try to land a few stripers, maybe a salmon, or snapper.
In the morning, Blaine and I roll up to the free wi-fi coffee shop, check our email, whatever. One of my daughters delivered our sixth grandchild this week, so I was able to receive several large photos of our new baby wirelessly, sipping my single shot Americano. She is soooooo beautiful.
My mother-in-law is here with us, so she and Marie have been getting lots of quilting done. All in all, we are just relaxing and taking it easy, recharging. Here are some pictures of us in Bandon
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
When we travel, we have a few extras to consider, our Bichon Frises, for one thing. We love to have them with us, and as long as we are not flying to China, count on us to bring them along. But accomodations where pups are allowed are few, and then, one must never leave dogs, who may bark, for example, at the sightest provocation, in a motel room, and take the chance of disturbing other travelers. So we thought we’d try to find a beach house for rent, one which allows dogs.
In additon to our dogs’ needs, when we take Blaine, which is always, we need to find an accessible situation, since he uses a wheelchair. So I hit the internet to look for a nice accessible beach house which would also allow a couple of dogs.
Today I sit comfortably in the living room of the beach house we found to rent back then, where we are vacationing for our third year in a row. We love these accomodations, and Bandon. We are staying at The Historic Bandon River House, right on the Coquille River, just a few blocks from “old” downtown Bandon. It is an old store, actually, converted into a rental. Years ago, it was a cobbler’s store. I can almost fish the river from the house’s back porch. It is large, with lots of space for a person in a wheelchair. And the dogs, currently both snuggling to my thigh as I write, well, if they could speak English, I am certain they would share their approval. I take them out back, and tie them to the porch railing while I fish. They sit so quietly and calmly, rare for them, so I am convinced they are very content.
Damn, no fish yet. I’m workin’ on it. Maybe this evening. The guys from The Port of Bandon told me to sneak out onto their “no trespassing” dock, next door, after they go home, so I am going to go out later, and get my line into deeper water, try to land a few stripers, maybe a salmon, or snapper.
In the morning, Blaine and I roll up to the free wi-fi coffee shop, check our email, whatever. One of my daughters delivered our sixth grandchild this week, so I was able to receive several large photos of our new baby wirelessly, sipping my single shot Americano. She is soooooo beautiful.
My mother-in-law is here with us, so she and Marie have been getting lots of quilting done. All in all, we are just relaxing and taking it easy, recharging. Here are some pictures of us in Bandon
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, August 26, 2005
Drawn to Dives
I have an eye for the antique, the old fashioned. Furnishings, cars from yesteryear, just about any ol’ time honored thing. Fortunately, I have a small warehouse, so, over the years, I have had a place to store a lot of stuff. But as one of Marie’s old friends once said, "we are no longer in acquisition mode".
One thing that really gets me fired up, among all the great old things, are old restaurants, and the buildings that hold them. We might be driving along, down Main Street in some small town, and I will see the front of some restaurant, housed in an “art deco” styled building, and with it's great bold lines and slanted windows, it just calls me in. I might see an old lunch counter through the glass, maybe some cigarette smokin’ fedora wearin’ farm hand named Bernie at the counter, getting ready to slam his toasted cheese, and I gotta go in.
Unfortunately, many of these old restaurants and lunch counters have seen better days, as far as facilities are concerned. Very few have accessible bathrooms, for example, and almost all have some other sort of cleanliness issues, like old rotting carpet or linoleum tile, ripped and torn naugahyde booths, something. Still, I love'm. I get that same feeling that other antique and old things buffs describe, the feeling of “a simpler time”. Maybe that’s one reason we love our Airstream.
My perfect wife Marie allows me my need for occasional visits to these kinds of restaurants, and even enjoys the architecture, and sometimes over the top tacky decor. I can always tell, however, that she is a bit nervous about the generally sullied facilites, as she downs her patty melt with trepidation.
Marie teases me, occasionally, about how I took her, on our first date, to a Portland bar and grill named “Spot 69”, on 69th and Foster in Portland. To me, I was sharing one of my great loves with her, an older, kinda crummy but completely interesting old dining establishment, complete with gum chewing waitresses who call everyone honey, huge martinis for a couple of bucks, and a sort of psuedo Howard Johnsons decor, circa 1960, complete with turquoise and orange booths, and 50’s style swag lamps slung low over each table. Makes me wanna start smokin’ again just talkin’ about it. Marie loves to remind me, how, at the salad bar that night, there was a sign, printed by hand in crayon, that said, “ PLEASE USE TONGS”. Is that great or what?!!!!
Driving to the coast this week, we passed a few of these establishments, most notably in North Bend, Oregon, just before you get to Coos Bay. My heart fluttered as I stared, dangerously, since I was behind the wheel, into the windows of several very groovy establishments. “Keep your eyes on the road please”, Marie spoke as we passed. “We gotta go to those restaurants, Marie”, I replied, half serious. She chuckled. “I am in charge of the restaurants we are going to this week, Ric, because you, my sweet husband, are drawn to dives”.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
One thing that really gets me fired up, among all the great old things, are old restaurants, and the buildings that hold them. We might be driving along, down Main Street in some small town, and I will see the front of some restaurant, housed in an “art deco” styled building, and with it's great bold lines and slanted windows, it just calls me in. I might see an old lunch counter through the glass, maybe some cigarette smokin’ fedora wearin’ farm hand named Bernie at the counter, getting ready to slam his toasted cheese, and I gotta go in.
Unfortunately, many of these old restaurants and lunch counters have seen better days, as far as facilities are concerned. Very few have accessible bathrooms, for example, and almost all have some other sort of cleanliness issues, like old rotting carpet or linoleum tile, ripped and torn naugahyde booths, something. Still, I love'm. I get that same feeling that other antique and old things buffs describe, the feeling of “a simpler time”. Maybe that’s one reason we love our Airstream.
My perfect wife Marie allows me my need for occasional visits to these kinds of restaurants, and even enjoys the architecture, and sometimes over the top tacky decor. I can always tell, however, that she is a bit nervous about the generally sullied facilites, as she downs her patty melt with trepidation.
Marie teases me, occasionally, about how I took her, on our first date, to a Portland bar and grill named “Spot 69”, on 69th and Foster in Portland. To me, I was sharing one of my great loves with her, an older, kinda crummy but completely interesting old dining establishment, complete with gum chewing waitresses who call everyone honey, huge martinis for a couple of bucks, and a sort of psuedo Howard Johnsons decor, circa 1960, complete with turquoise and orange booths, and 50’s style swag lamps slung low over each table. Makes me wanna start smokin’ again just talkin’ about it. Marie loves to remind me, how, at the salad bar that night, there was a sign, printed by hand in crayon, that said, “ PLEASE USE TONGS”. Is that great or what?!!!!
Driving to the coast this week, we passed a few of these establishments, most notably in North Bend, Oregon, just before you get to Coos Bay. My heart fluttered as I stared, dangerously, since I was behind the wheel, into the windows of several very groovy establishments. “Keep your eyes on the road please”, Marie spoke as we passed. “We gotta go to those restaurants, Marie”, I replied, half serious. She chuckled. “I am in charge of the restaurants we are going to this week, Ric, because you, my sweet husband, are drawn to dives”.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Monday, August 22, 2005
Hyperbole Generation
We laugh, my sisters and I, when we talk about my Dad, who slipped this mortal coil in 1993, and his tendency to overinflate all manner of things, people, places, events, whatever. Once, he told me, “I’ve got a direct line to the Governor’s chair”, because he was certain that, since the governor’s brother was a regular at my Dad’s Kiwanis group, that he would surely be afforded special treatment. And once, above the din of kitchen noise and crying babies at “Poor Richard’s Steak House Restaurant”, in Portland, where he had scheduled a family Christmas dinner party, right before the “two-fer” steaks we had all ordered arrived, and which were not that tasty, he spoke, proudly and loudly,“This is the best restaurant in the State, bar none.” Even when he was alive, at moments like this, my sisters and I, and even our spouses, would have some sneaky eye contact, and later, crack up over his enthusiastic lack of taste and less than perfect grasp on reality. And we are not talking just once in awhile, friends, we are are talking all the time, the best this, the best that, the best everything. It kinda creeped me out.
I admit that there is a lot of my Dad in me, but there are some behaviors that, given my sensitivity and knack for making fun of him over the years, I have been successful at avoiding. I like to think I exhibit only the good parts, like a nice even portion of his verve and enthusiasm for things. You know, the quintessential, “gets up on the right side of the bed” sorta dude.
So it came as a complete surprise to me, nay, a complete disappointment, when, driving to the beach this weekend, my wife caught me, yet again, being my Dad. As we were floating down one particularly glorious section of highway 101, alongside the surf and Mazanitas, I spoke, “we gotta get some clam chowder while we’re down here”, to which I received a welcome grin from my spouse. And then, with visions of some creamy and clam filled bowl before me, I said, “You know, if we can find some clam chowder as good as the clam chowder they serve at “The Sizzler” in Portland, that’s what I want.” My wife Marie, who is not particularly fond of “The Sizzler”, or any salad bar kinda place with e-coli potential and less than choice cuts of beef, sat silent. She knows I like “The Sizzler”, and mostly tolerates my lack of restaurant discernment. And then, not yet satisfied with her reaction, I spoke more assertively, “Yep, that clam chowder at the Sizzler, it rules. I’ll tell ya, I don’ know how they make that stuff, but that clam chowder, well, it’s just THE BEST!” Suddenly her silence turned to giggles, and then full blown laughter. “WHUT!?”, I replied to her snickering, and as she went on, "whut?” “You are sounding just like your Dad, Ric”, she spoke, as I immediately became defensive. “Hey, I’m not one to go on and on about something if it isn’t true!”, I replied. But then, as she was exploding with belly laughs, I realized she was right, totally right, and I began to laugh myself. And then, for comic effect, I retaliated, in feigned anguish,”I can’t believe you’re saying that!” But standing her ground, still laughing heartily, she hit the nail on the head with, “Oh Ric, you come from a long line of 'hyperbole generators'”.
Some of you might remember how, at times, I have been amazed and thrilled at my wife’s use of language, so much so that I have included many of her words and phrases in my songs. And when she used that term, which just fell out of her brain, “hyperbole generator”, I completely lost it. For the next few minutes, I laughed as hard as I ever have, till I finally composed myself, as I drove, and asked for a tissue. Since she was laughing right along with me, as was our son Blaine, in the back seat, I once again thanked her for her brilliant mind and the way she uses words. “Oh, I wasn’t laughing at that”, she said, I was laughing ‘cause you’re just like your Dad.”
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I admit that there is a lot of my Dad in me, but there are some behaviors that, given my sensitivity and knack for making fun of him over the years, I have been successful at avoiding. I like to think I exhibit only the good parts, like a nice even portion of his verve and enthusiasm for things. You know, the quintessential, “gets up on the right side of the bed” sorta dude.
So it came as a complete surprise to me, nay, a complete disappointment, when, driving to the beach this weekend, my wife caught me, yet again, being my Dad. As we were floating down one particularly glorious section of highway 101, alongside the surf and Mazanitas, I spoke, “we gotta get some clam chowder while we’re down here”, to which I received a welcome grin from my spouse. And then, with visions of some creamy and clam filled bowl before me, I said, “You know, if we can find some clam chowder as good as the clam chowder they serve at “The Sizzler” in Portland, that’s what I want.” My wife Marie, who is not particularly fond of “The Sizzler”, or any salad bar kinda place with e-coli potential and less than choice cuts of beef, sat silent. She knows I like “The Sizzler”, and mostly tolerates my lack of restaurant discernment. And then, not yet satisfied with her reaction, I spoke more assertively, “Yep, that clam chowder at the Sizzler, it rules. I’ll tell ya, I don’ know how they make that stuff, but that clam chowder, well, it’s just THE BEST!” Suddenly her silence turned to giggles, and then full blown laughter. “WHUT!?”, I replied to her snickering, and as she went on, "whut?” “You are sounding just like your Dad, Ric”, she spoke, as I immediately became defensive. “Hey, I’m not one to go on and on about something if it isn’t true!”, I replied. But then, as she was exploding with belly laughs, I realized she was right, totally right, and I began to laugh myself. And then, for comic effect, I retaliated, in feigned anguish,”I can’t believe you’re saying that!” But standing her ground, still laughing heartily, she hit the nail on the head with, “Oh Ric, you come from a long line of 'hyperbole generators'”.
Some of you might remember how, at times, I have been amazed and thrilled at my wife’s use of language, so much so that I have included many of her words and phrases in my songs. And when she used that term, which just fell out of her brain, “hyperbole generator”, I completely lost it. For the next few minutes, I laughed as hard as I ever have, till I finally composed myself, as I drove, and asked for a tissue. Since she was laughing right along with me, as was our son Blaine, in the back seat, I once again thanked her for her brilliant mind and the way she uses words. “Oh, I wasn’t laughing at that”, she said, I was laughing ‘cause you’re just like your Dad.”
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, August 19, 2005
FREQ Mastering
My friend Ryan Foster is the mastering engineer at Portland’s own “FREQ mastering”, (say FREAK), and this dude is good. As I sat behind him, in his mastering studio, several days in the past couple of months, I would watch, as my songs played, and he moved his head, side to side, so that his ears could pick up every little nuance, strings, guitars, vocals. As he turned the dials and pushed buttons and scooted his chair, I felt a bit like I was in Oz. It is definitely true that some are just born with much better hearing. Ryan Foster is one of those people.
In late September, or Rocktober, 2005, I will be announcing the release of two new CDs. One is titled “Who Come Down?”, and the other, “Dubs On Trial’. There are 33 new songs total, ranging from love songs to my old stand-by, the quirky novelty song. I can’t help it, folks. Weird shit just pops into my head. Let’s just say, well, there’s a rockin’ little ditty on “Dubs” titled “Sour Cream”. As usual, my main man Tim Ellis performs guitars, and his parts are just brilliant.
Some of you reading this may have not yet signed my guest book, or left your email address on the homepage of this site. I would love to send you an announcement when the CDs are finished, that is, when they arrive from New York, where they are being replicated. If you havent done this yet, I hope you will have a moment to do so. Thanks.
FREQ Mastering website
In late September, or Rocktober, 2005, I will be announcing the release of two new CDs. One is titled “Who Come Down?”, and the other, “Dubs On Trial’. There are 33 new songs total, ranging from love songs to my old stand-by, the quirky novelty song. I can’t help it, folks. Weird shit just pops into my head. Let’s just say, well, there’s a rockin’ little ditty on “Dubs” titled “Sour Cream”. As usual, my main man Tim Ellis performs guitars, and his parts are just brilliant.
Some of you reading this may have not yet signed my guest book, or left your email address on the homepage of this site. I would love to send you an announcement when the CDs are finished, that is, when they arrive from New York, where they are being replicated. If you havent done this yet, I hope you will have a moment to do so. Thanks.
FREQ Mastering website
Monday, August 15, 2005
Junk
My mother and father, God bless their souls, did a pretty good job, I think, teaching my sisters and I to not judge others unfairly, particularly the less fortunate. We might be riding in the car, when one of us would spot a transient or bag lady, maybe someone a bit crazy, hollering obscenities or religious jibber jabber on the street corner. At those times, Mom would pull out her trusty saying, “There but for the grace of God go I”. I am sure I was like 4 years old when I grasped the meaning of those words.
But at times, if someone in our circle, a neighbor, or say, a politician, or entertainment personality, had done something stupid, maybe even made the paper, she could rant on with the best of them, about how stupid it was for this or that person to do such a thing. So, along with my need to be fair, and to keep myself reminded that, someday, I may do something really stupid, (as if I haven't already) or, become one of the less fortunate myself, I come by the trait of blathering on about somebody being a dumb shit honestly.
I spent last weekend in Seattle with my youngest daughter, who is thoroughly pregnant, and due any day, to deliver our sixth grandchild, a girl. On Saturday night, we went to see the annual fireworks display at “The Festival at Mt. Si”, in North Bend, Washington, which is a stone’s throw from the home she shares with her family in Snoqualmie. We arrived early, and my smart and respectable son-in-law and I carried in the chairs and blankets. We found a nice spot right away, within earshot of the toy vendor. Before long, my grandaughter, and many others, were dripping with glowsticks, as we waited for the party to begin.
About 9pm, (the fireworks began at 9:45) a couple of guys, around 40 years old, and a woman, set up right in front of me, which was fine. I never did talk to them. After they got there, they basically looked forward, with their backs to us, for the duration. One of the men stood a lot, especially before the fireworks began. He had super long hair, which he would flick back, Nugent like, and the second they arrived, the chain smoking began. As he stood there, before me, I could tell, as the minutes went by, that he was on something. He was fidgety to the max, and would not shut up. The other two people were much more calm.
But when the fireworks began, the other guy began fidgeting, and talking non-stop, and I could tell that the meth had kicked in. As the first flashes of light filled the sky, and throughout the entire display, I got my own personal, shall we say, enthusiastic play by play of the fireworks.
SPEED FREAK ONE: WHOAAAAAAA!, DUDE, THAT WAS AWESOME! WAS THAT AWESOME? DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT! IT WAS AWESOME!
SPEED FREAK TWO: MAN, THAT WAS THE AWESOMEST, THOSE LITTLE STRINGS FALLIN’ DOWN, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, (another explosion) OOHHHHHHHHH, THAT WAS AWESOME TOO, FUCK’N’A, DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME!
SPEED FREAK ONE: I COULD WATCH THESE FUCKING FIREWORKS ALL FUCKING NIGHT MAN, NO SHIT, I COULD SIT HERE 24/7, OHHHHHH (LAUGHS) DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT, OHHHHH, DUDE, DID YOU FEEL THE HEAT FROM THAT FUCKING THING?
SPEED FREEK TWO, DUDE, OHHHH, I FUCKING FELT IT ON MY FACE, IT WAS AWESOME, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, IT WAS LIKE A FUCKING A-BOMB WENT OFF, OHHHHHHH, THERE GOES ANOTHER ONE, OOOWWWWWWWW! WHAT A FUCKING GREAT SHOW, DUDE, IS THIS FUCKIN’ AWESOME? FUCK’N’A MAN I JUST WISH THEY’D FALL RIGHT ON TOP OF US!
You get the drift. It was pitiful, all that ridiculous cussin’ and pontificatin’, from where I sat, midst a large and harmonious audience of Seattle families and their grade school aged offspring, but a bit funny too.
The next day, walking through Costco with my daughter, I made some comment like, “Man, I really like those Costco halibut fish ’n’ chips”, as we passed the freezer case, and then, I got this vision of somehow finding myself, there in Costco, walking behind those same speed freaks, and having to listen to them go on about Costco, ad nauseum, as in, “THOSE FUCKING FISH AND CHIPS, DUDE, HAVE YOU HAD THOSE?, DUDE, THEY ROCK, THEY ARE TOOOOO MUCH, TOTALLY AWESOME, I’M GETTIN’ SOME!”
My name is Ric Seaberg, and when I was much younger, I spent a few years myself, taking amphetamines, the pill kind, recreationally. I am ashamed to admit that I know the speed feeling. I am certain that I made the drive from Seattle to Portland a few times, talking non-stop, and going on over enthusiastically about any number of things, oh, billboards, whatever. So I don’t want to be too hard on those guys, but they were certainly old enough to know better, and they just sounded like complete idiots. What a coupla’ losers, those Meth Usin’ Lynnard Skynnard Lovin’ Dorks.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
But at times, if someone in our circle, a neighbor, or say, a politician, or entertainment personality, had done something stupid, maybe even made the paper, she could rant on with the best of them, about how stupid it was for this or that person to do such a thing. So, along with my need to be fair, and to keep myself reminded that, someday, I may do something really stupid, (as if I haven't already) or, become one of the less fortunate myself, I come by the trait of blathering on about somebody being a dumb shit honestly.
I spent last weekend in Seattle with my youngest daughter, who is thoroughly pregnant, and due any day, to deliver our sixth grandchild, a girl. On Saturday night, we went to see the annual fireworks display at “The Festival at Mt. Si”, in North Bend, Washington, which is a stone’s throw from the home she shares with her family in Snoqualmie. We arrived early, and my smart and respectable son-in-law and I carried in the chairs and blankets. We found a nice spot right away, within earshot of the toy vendor. Before long, my grandaughter, and many others, were dripping with glowsticks, as we waited for the party to begin.
About 9pm, (the fireworks began at 9:45) a couple of guys, around 40 years old, and a woman, set up right in front of me, which was fine. I never did talk to them. After they got there, they basically looked forward, with their backs to us, for the duration. One of the men stood a lot, especially before the fireworks began. He had super long hair, which he would flick back, Nugent like, and the second they arrived, the chain smoking began. As he stood there, before me, I could tell, as the minutes went by, that he was on something. He was fidgety to the max, and would not shut up. The other two people were much more calm.
But when the fireworks began, the other guy began fidgeting, and talking non-stop, and I could tell that the meth had kicked in. As the first flashes of light filled the sky, and throughout the entire display, I got my own personal, shall we say, enthusiastic play by play of the fireworks.
SPEED FREAK ONE: WHOAAAAAAA!, DUDE, THAT WAS AWESOME! WAS THAT AWESOME? DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT! IT WAS AWESOME!
SPEED FREAK TWO: MAN, THAT WAS THE AWESOMEST, THOSE LITTLE STRINGS FALLIN’ DOWN, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, (another explosion) OOHHHHHHHHH, THAT WAS AWESOME TOO, FUCK’N’A, DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME!
SPEED FREAK ONE: I COULD WATCH THESE FUCKING FIREWORKS ALL FUCKING NIGHT MAN, NO SHIT, I COULD SIT HERE 24/7, OHHHHHH (LAUGHS) DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT, OHHHHH, DUDE, DID YOU FEEL THE HEAT FROM THAT FUCKING THING?
SPEED FREEK TWO, DUDE, OHHHH, I FUCKING FELT IT ON MY FACE, IT WAS AWESOME, TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME, IT WAS LIKE A FUCKING A-BOMB WENT OFF, OHHHHHHH, THERE GOES ANOTHER ONE, OOOWWWWWWWW! WHAT A FUCKING GREAT SHOW, DUDE, IS THIS FUCKIN’ AWESOME? FUCK’N’A MAN I JUST WISH THEY’D FALL RIGHT ON TOP OF US!
You get the drift. It was pitiful, all that ridiculous cussin’ and pontificatin’, from where I sat, midst a large and harmonious audience of Seattle families and their grade school aged offspring, but a bit funny too.
The next day, walking through Costco with my daughter, I made some comment like, “Man, I really like those Costco halibut fish ’n’ chips”, as we passed the freezer case, and then, I got this vision of somehow finding myself, there in Costco, walking behind those same speed freaks, and having to listen to them go on about Costco, ad nauseum, as in, “THOSE FUCKING FISH AND CHIPS, DUDE, HAVE YOU HAD THOSE?, DUDE, THEY ROCK, THEY ARE TOOOOO MUCH, TOTALLY AWESOME, I’M GETTIN’ SOME!”
My name is Ric Seaberg, and when I was much younger, I spent a few years myself, taking amphetamines, the pill kind, recreationally. I am ashamed to admit that I know the speed feeling. I am certain that I made the drive from Seattle to Portland a few times, talking non-stop, and going on over enthusiastically about any number of things, oh, billboards, whatever. So I don’t want to be too hard on those guys, but they were certainly old enough to know better, and they just sounded like complete idiots. What a coupla’ losers, those Meth Usin’ Lynnard Skynnard Lovin’ Dorks.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Football
I know it’s only August, but right about now, every year, I start thinkin’ about football. Football grabbed me when I was a kid, and I have played a lot of it, well, years ago anyway. To make that interception, after barely tipping the ball from it’s intended receiver, and then fingertipping it along the sidelines until you finally manage to bring it in, and then run it back for a touchdown, to me, that’s perfect. And it’s great fun to watch other guys do it too. Gimme some hot wings, a couple of Oregon Sports Action tickets, a comfy chair, and maybe my son (or my daughters) to share it with, and I am one happy Sunday Afternoon Football Lovin’ Dude. I think another reason why I like football so much is, though it does have it’s size requirements, it is a very creative game. The “playbook” as they call it, is complex.
Marie isn’t particularly fond of football, with it’s hard hitting and inevitable injuries, but she is kind to find another TV in the house, so Blaine and I can waste the day ooooohing and ahhhhhing over terrific plays, and spends her time with a more, uh, girlish project, maybe quilting. Sometimes, she might nap, and then, of course, just as she nods off on the living room couch, finally down deep in REM-land after a rough week at work, and while our little white dogs form her comfy blanket, a great or not so great play will occur in the game Blaine and I are watching, and I will yell, at the top of my lungs, “ WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?”, much to her shock and dismay. “Could you guys maybe shut your door”, she quietly begs, heart pounding. She is such a sweetie for putting up with all that Autumn boy energy.
I favor the Seahawks, since it’s our closest franchise, and some other reasons, like I was living in Seattle myself when the franchise was formed, and now, both my daughters and their families live there, so we share our enthusiasm for the Hawks. Recently, Blaine celebrated his 26th birthday, and we gave him two tickets to a Seahawks game, which we are going to order as soon as they go on sale. He and I are going to take the train, from Portland to Seattle, probably in September, and then just walk, or roll in Blainey’s case, over to the stadium in Seattle, which is right by the train station. Amtrak is quite accessible, and apparently, there is seating in the Seahawk’s stadium IN EVERY SECTION for those who use a wheelchair, which blows my mind, and is in itself a great reason to support the Seahawks. After we go, I will let you know how it went.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Marie isn’t particularly fond of football, with it’s hard hitting and inevitable injuries, but she is kind to find another TV in the house, so Blaine and I can waste the day ooooohing and ahhhhhing over terrific plays, and spends her time with a more, uh, girlish project, maybe quilting. Sometimes, she might nap, and then, of course, just as she nods off on the living room couch, finally down deep in REM-land after a rough week at work, and while our little white dogs form her comfy blanket, a great or not so great play will occur in the game Blaine and I are watching, and I will yell, at the top of my lungs, “ WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?”, much to her shock and dismay. “Could you guys maybe shut your door”, she quietly begs, heart pounding. She is such a sweetie for putting up with all that Autumn boy energy.
I favor the Seahawks, since it’s our closest franchise, and some other reasons, like I was living in Seattle myself when the franchise was formed, and now, both my daughters and their families live there, so we share our enthusiasm for the Hawks. Recently, Blaine celebrated his 26th birthday, and we gave him two tickets to a Seahawks game, which we are going to order as soon as they go on sale. He and I are going to take the train, from Portland to Seattle, probably in September, and then just walk, or roll in Blainey’s case, over to the stadium in Seattle, which is right by the train station. Amtrak is quite accessible, and apparently, there is seating in the Seahawk’s stadium IN EVERY SECTION for those who use a wheelchair, which blows my mind, and is in itself a great reason to support the Seahawks. After we go, I will let you know how it went.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sunday, August 07, 2005
The Writing Grunt
My wife Marie says that, when I write, I grunt. The first time she mentioned it, we were sitting in our Airstream, in the picturesque beauty of a Washington State Park, enjoying the quietescence and each other’s company, at our spendid and unusual oak parquet dining table, when apparently, I shattered her concentration, and she burst out laughing.
“Whut”? I spoke, as her sides split, and she fell across the divan. “You grunt when you write honey, it’s like “............and then she went into this little grunting sound, nay, more of a routine, to show me my grunt.
Being a forgiveness nut myself, and not one who would be defensive at such a time, I just made a little remark like, “Oh yeah, sorry, I guess I’m really getting into it over here, sorry”. But then, minutes later, after suddenly being made aware of this malady, I caught myself doing it, right at the crescendo of some sentence with a wallop, and I knew she was totally correct. I do grunt when I write.
Woeful little tick, don’cha think? Ya sit down with a guy for a bit of peace and quiet, maybe read a bit of The New Yorker, or The Atlantic, sip some Chardonnay, but then you see him get out his legal pad, and a pen, and you realize, oh goody, I see I am about to experience, yet again, “the grunt”.
When my Dad, Bob Seaberg, was alive, bless his soul, he had a bunch of little habits that drove me nuts, not the least of which was scooping the remaining food on his plate onto his fork with his middle finger, his hand and finger assuming the basic “fuck you” posture as he prepared to eat his final peas. I am certain I chastised the poor man time and again about it, but alas, my concern never took.
Honey, I fear I am doomed to be a grunter, when I write. When you caught me at it tonight, I thought, Jesus, there I go again.
These days, when I look into the mirror, especially when I have those 40’s style glasses on, I see my Dad looking right back at me. And my grunting is probably here to stay. But I am never gonna flip anybody off, knowingly or otherwise, at the dining table.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
“Whut”? I spoke, as her sides split, and she fell across the divan. “You grunt when you write honey, it’s like “............and then she went into this little grunting sound, nay, more of a routine, to show me my grunt.
Being a forgiveness nut myself, and not one who would be defensive at such a time, I just made a little remark like, “Oh yeah, sorry, I guess I’m really getting into it over here, sorry”. But then, minutes later, after suddenly being made aware of this malady, I caught myself doing it, right at the crescendo of some sentence with a wallop, and I knew she was totally correct. I do grunt when I write.
Woeful little tick, don’cha think? Ya sit down with a guy for a bit of peace and quiet, maybe read a bit of The New Yorker, or The Atlantic, sip some Chardonnay, but then you see him get out his legal pad, and a pen, and you realize, oh goody, I see I am about to experience, yet again, “the grunt”.
When my Dad, Bob Seaberg, was alive, bless his soul, he had a bunch of little habits that drove me nuts, not the least of which was scooping the remaining food on his plate onto his fork with his middle finger, his hand and finger assuming the basic “fuck you” posture as he prepared to eat his final peas. I am certain I chastised the poor man time and again about it, but alas, my concern never took.
Honey, I fear I am doomed to be a grunter, when I write. When you caught me at it tonight, I thought, Jesus, there I go again.
These days, when I look into the mirror, especially when I have those 40’s style glasses on, I see my Dad looking right back at me. And my grunting is probably here to stay. But I am never gonna flip anybody off, knowingly or otherwise, at the dining table.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, August 04, 2005
The World's Largest Tire
Those of you who have been stumbling through my blog entries for awhile might remember that, in 1997, Marie, Blaine and I took a trip to Cleveland, to see The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and other sights, and to Detroit, to take in Hitsville, USA, the recording studio where Berry Gordy Jr. and his crew cranked out a ton of Motown hits. Blaine is a big Motown buff, (as are Marie and I), and this vacation was to be his high school graduation present.
I have written here about some of the sights we visited during that amazing and fun trip, which also included a day trip to Ada, Michigan, to see The World Amway Headquarters, just because we are completely out of our minds, and one day, we found a museum in Cleveland called The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame, which was just a blast. We dined on perch from Lake Michigan, visited several other museums, on and on. It was one great vacation.
One day, in Detroit, when we awoke, we decided to, among other things that day, go see “The World’s Largest Tire”, in Dearborn, Michigan, yet another site related to auto manufacturing in the Detroit area. I should say, "The World’s Largest Uniroyal Tire”, since it is basically a promotion for Uniroyal, and sits, billboard like, just off the freeway. We had read about the tire in one of our “Wacky Shit To Do OnYour Vacation” books, and after our sumptuous Fruit Loops breakfast from the motel lobby, we headed out in our rented van.
As we approached Dearborn, we could see the tire looming on the horizon. The fucking thing is huge. Of course, we ad-libbed our immense pleasure at seeing it, as we approached, saying things like, “Oh my God, would’ya look at that thing, it’s gigantic, it’s wonderful, I can’t believe we finally made it!” I know, I know. It’s a bit offbeat. But we were keyed up.
However, as we got to the neighborhood, to try to get right up close and personal to the tire, we realized, this is not gonna be easy. There were no signs to help one find the tire. There were no apparent roads to the tire, I mean, so that you could get right up by it. The heck with that, we all said, we are gonna get to that tire! We have come all this way just to see this tire, up close, and by God, we are gonna do it!
As we entered the neighborhood, which bordered the freeway, and the tire, all we found was a neighborhood. The tire was barely visable, just the top part, above the tree tops, as we looked toward the freeway. Suddenly, Marie saw some residents on the street, and told me to pull over. To my shock, she accosted these unsuspecting neighbors, who were standing in their driveway, with “excuse me, we have travelled here from Portland, Oregon, just to see The World’s Largest Tire, that one over there by the freeway. We want to get up close to it, so we were wondering, since you live here and all, how do we get over there”? If my memory serves me correctly, there were three people there, listening to Marie’s question, and when she was through, they just stood there and stared at her. For like, awhile. As in, lady, you’re scaring us. Finally, one of them piped up, “No, we don’ know”, and they all began slowly back pedalling toward their garage. Ha! Dearborn proves to be no match for the little gal from Portland! As we drove away, no smarter, Marie groused about the encounter, as in “wellllll, those people were no help, probably lived here all their lives, and they don’t even know how to get to the tire, gawd!” Blaine and I were laughing so hard, I finally had to pull over again to regain control.
Undaunted, but becoming a bit skeptical about our chances to view the tire from its base, we drove and drove. In the neighborhood. Out the neigborhood. Back onto the freeway and past the tire again. And again. Finally, I spied what looked to me like a possible roadway to the tire, next to an industrial building. There was an expansive parking lot in front of this building, and I entered cautiously, scanning for security, and any other significant factors, like “employees only” signs, uniformed guards, anything. I kept driving, through the lot, and came to a large cyclone fence gate, which was wide open, and it looked to me like the road ahead just might lead to the tire. I was happy to see the gate was open. But my glee was dampened when I saw the large sign, next to the gate, permanently affixed to the fence which said, NO TRESPASSING.
We looked at each other, and I said to Marie, “what do you think?”. But as she was contemplating an answer, my wild side, and the fact that we had come this far, got the best of me. I slammed my foot down onto the gas pedal. “Dukes of Dearborn” time.
The road was gravel, and very rough, and since I was driving so fast, it was one hell of a bumpy ride. Just for fun, I let fly a war whoop. I can remember Marie shouting “Oh my God!” as we appoached a creek bridge, visions of Chappaquiddick dancing in her head. But moments later, as we threaded our way, at 40 mph, through the forest, while the brush on the sides of the road scraped our van, the forest opened to reveal the grail.
There, rising mightily before us, and our battered van, as we sat in silence, and angels sang, stood one huge black Uniroyal tire, on a rather large pad of grass, not exactly manicured, but definitely maintained. There were no picnic tables, but there could have been. It was like a small park, no baseball diamond, just The World’s Largest Tire. We took some photos in a hurry, laughed until we cried, and got outa there.
Here’s a picture.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I have written here about some of the sights we visited during that amazing and fun trip, which also included a day trip to Ada, Michigan, to see The World Amway Headquarters, just because we are completely out of our minds, and one day, we found a museum in Cleveland called The Cleveland Style Polka Hall of Fame, which was just a blast. We dined on perch from Lake Michigan, visited several other museums, on and on. It was one great vacation.
One day, in Detroit, when we awoke, we decided to, among other things that day, go see “The World’s Largest Tire”, in Dearborn, Michigan, yet another site related to auto manufacturing in the Detroit area. I should say, "The World’s Largest Uniroyal Tire”, since it is basically a promotion for Uniroyal, and sits, billboard like, just off the freeway. We had read about the tire in one of our “Wacky Shit To Do OnYour Vacation” books, and after our sumptuous Fruit Loops breakfast from the motel lobby, we headed out in our rented van.
As we approached Dearborn, we could see the tire looming on the horizon. The fucking thing is huge. Of course, we ad-libbed our immense pleasure at seeing it, as we approached, saying things like, “Oh my God, would’ya look at that thing, it’s gigantic, it’s wonderful, I can’t believe we finally made it!” I know, I know. It’s a bit offbeat. But we were keyed up.
However, as we got to the neighborhood, to try to get right up close and personal to the tire, we realized, this is not gonna be easy. There were no signs to help one find the tire. There were no apparent roads to the tire, I mean, so that you could get right up by it. The heck with that, we all said, we are gonna get to that tire! We have come all this way just to see this tire, up close, and by God, we are gonna do it!
As we entered the neighborhood, which bordered the freeway, and the tire, all we found was a neighborhood. The tire was barely visable, just the top part, above the tree tops, as we looked toward the freeway. Suddenly, Marie saw some residents on the street, and told me to pull over. To my shock, she accosted these unsuspecting neighbors, who were standing in their driveway, with “excuse me, we have travelled here from Portland, Oregon, just to see The World’s Largest Tire, that one over there by the freeway. We want to get up close to it, so we were wondering, since you live here and all, how do we get over there”? If my memory serves me correctly, there were three people there, listening to Marie’s question, and when she was through, they just stood there and stared at her. For like, awhile. As in, lady, you’re scaring us. Finally, one of them piped up, “No, we don’ know”, and they all began slowly back pedalling toward their garage. Ha! Dearborn proves to be no match for the little gal from Portland! As we drove away, no smarter, Marie groused about the encounter, as in “wellllll, those people were no help, probably lived here all their lives, and they don’t even know how to get to the tire, gawd!” Blaine and I were laughing so hard, I finally had to pull over again to regain control.
Undaunted, but becoming a bit skeptical about our chances to view the tire from its base, we drove and drove. In the neighborhood. Out the neigborhood. Back onto the freeway and past the tire again. And again. Finally, I spied what looked to me like a possible roadway to the tire, next to an industrial building. There was an expansive parking lot in front of this building, and I entered cautiously, scanning for security, and any other significant factors, like “employees only” signs, uniformed guards, anything. I kept driving, through the lot, and came to a large cyclone fence gate, which was wide open, and it looked to me like the road ahead just might lead to the tire. I was happy to see the gate was open. But my glee was dampened when I saw the large sign, next to the gate, permanently affixed to the fence which said, NO TRESPASSING.
We looked at each other, and I said to Marie, “what do you think?”. But as she was contemplating an answer, my wild side, and the fact that we had come this far, got the best of me. I slammed my foot down onto the gas pedal. “Dukes of Dearborn” time.
The road was gravel, and very rough, and since I was driving so fast, it was one hell of a bumpy ride. Just for fun, I let fly a war whoop. I can remember Marie shouting “Oh my God!” as we appoached a creek bridge, visions of Chappaquiddick dancing in her head. But moments later, as we threaded our way, at 40 mph, through the forest, while the brush on the sides of the road scraped our van, the forest opened to reveal the grail.
There, rising mightily before us, and our battered van, as we sat in silence, and angels sang, stood one huge black Uniroyal tire, on a rather large pad of grass, not exactly manicured, but definitely maintained. There were no picnic tables, but there could have been. It was like a small park, no baseball diamond, just The World’s Largest Tire. We took some photos in a hurry, laughed until we cried, and got outa there.
Here’s a picture.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Bullies
My wife Marie and I are known to our grown children as a couple who spoil their dogs endlessly, ad nauseum. When they came for Christmas last year, and entered our foyer, to the enthusiastic yapping of two little white Bichon Frises, in their velvet red and green Christmas outfits, well, let’s just say, we got “the look".
However guilty we feel for ending up, admittedly so, as two of the most hideously doting doggie parents of all time, pales in comparison to the depth of our love and commitment to these little “live stuffed animals”, as I sometimes refer to them. “Pippi (for Pippi Longstocking), and Poppi (for Popcorn) give us so much love and pleasure, how could we do less?
At the pet store, we buy the requisite “Greenies”, and a beef tendon treat they love called “Flossies”. Pippi will sit, and whine quietly, forever, at my office closet door, where I keep the Flossies, until I enter and pull one out of the special plastic drawer I keep there, labelled “dog treats”. But at $1.99 a pop, and since our dogs are small, I cut the Flossies into four pieces each, with a sharp “nail puller” tool I have placed in the drawer for just this purpose. Many times, working on my knees somewhere in the house, discovering a nail to pull, I have walked to the closet and to the dog treat drawer to retrieve it. Pippi will take her piece of Flossie immediately to the open area in my office, and begin to toss it wildly, up in the air, and then chase it, retrieve it, and do it again and again. Folks, trust me, it’s too damn cute.
Another treat our dogs love, but which we seldom buy anymore, since they reek, is the much touted “Bully”, or length of dried bull penis, also available at your local pet store in a variety of sizes. Apparently, they are quite yummy, as the bulging bins of bullies suggest, and I have seen our dogs, as Marie and I watch TV, gnarl one for hours, occasionally looking up to us to say, “Dad, Mom, yer the best”. The first time I bought some, a teenage clerk spotted my quizzical fondling of the bullies and announced, without discretion, “THEY'RE BULL PENISES”, and then, as an aside, she suggested, “dogs love’m. But don’t leave’m out in the yard, cuz they’ll reconstitute, and then, they’re totally gross!” I have noticed that not all bullies we have taken home are equally pungent, but most, to put it mildly, might require the additional purchase of one of those tacky plug in style air fresheners, the kind that can beat down any raunchy smell in favor of some scent like “”Overwhelming Pine” or “Wildflower Fields My Ass”.
We employ a wonderful Ukrainian couple, who come to our home twice a month, for several hours, to help us keep our house in order. They clean, especially giving our son Blaine’s room a thorough going over, which would be worth the money even if they didn’t do anything else. We deeply appreciate their help.
Each time they arrive, the dogs swarm them, in our foyer, as Cyrillic nouns and adjectives fly. Some minutes later, after the dogs have calmed, they go about their business, and as a rule, I guess you could say that they pick up their share of dog toys, which have been strewn anew, around the house, since the last time they cleaned. We have several baskets for said toys, and by the time they leave, each basket is in it’s spot, neatly teeming with toys. Within hours of their departure, however, someone, some dang dog, has tipped the baskets over, and the cycle begins again.
I am certain that our Ukrainian friends, who come from poverty in Eastern Europe, must think we are out of our minds, with this pet obsession of ours, including all of our dog toys and pampering. They are so kind, and are obviously fond of us, and we trust them implicitly as they move from room to room, collecting dust bunnies and restacking my lyric sheets. Sometimes, if they have run out of a product, or, perhaps, need a new package of vacuum bags, they will call me from my office to assist. “Reek”, they might call, and when I arrive, they relate their need, in ever so broken English. For the most part, given the language barrier, we do a pretty good job of understanding each other.
On one recent visit, however, I must say that I fell out of my league, out of my cultural context, in the understanding department, when I was called for a consultation. As I sat at my office desk, our female housekeeper stood at my door, and uttered my name. I turned to give her my complete attention. I could see that she was holding a “Bully” in her left hand, and one second after our eyes met, raised the bully up toward me, and posed the question....”Ees nah-chew-rahl?”, and then, before I could say one word, and I swear this actually happened, raised the bully further, up to within about one-half inch of her left nostril, and without reservation, put a humongus and deeply drawn nose hit on that bully, it’s gnarled end still dripping with dog spittle, slimy and white, and surely bearing the utterly gamey fragrance we have come to recognize from several rooms away. As she placed it back to her side, awaiting my answer, I think I saw her eyes tear up. “Yes”, I replied, and then, as she retreated, I thanked God that she had asked no further questions. Anyway, in my two years of Cyrillic study in college, I don’t believe I ever came across the translation for bull penis.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
However guilty we feel for ending up, admittedly so, as two of the most hideously doting doggie parents of all time, pales in comparison to the depth of our love and commitment to these little “live stuffed animals”, as I sometimes refer to them. “Pippi (for Pippi Longstocking), and Poppi (for Popcorn) give us so much love and pleasure, how could we do less?
At the pet store, we buy the requisite “Greenies”, and a beef tendon treat they love called “Flossies”. Pippi will sit, and whine quietly, forever, at my office closet door, where I keep the Flossies, until I enter and pull one out of the special plastic drawer I keep there, labelled “dog treats”. But at $1.99 a pop, and since our dogs are small, I cut the Flossies into four pieces each, with a sharp “nail puller” tool I have placed in the drawer for just this purpose. Many times, working on my knees somewhere in the house, discovering a nail to pull, I have walked to the closet and to the dog treat drawer to retrieve it. Pippi will take her piece of Flossie immediately to the open area in my office, and begin to toss it wildly, up in the air, and then chase it, retrieve it, and do it again and again. Folks, trust me, it’s too damn cute.
Another treat our dogs love, but which we seldom buy anymore, since they reek, is the much touted “Bully”, or length of dried bull penis, also available at your local pet store in a variety of sizes. Apparently, they are quite yummy, as the bulging bins of bullies suggest, and I have seen our dogs, as Marie and I watch TV, gnarl one for hours, occasionally looking up to us to say, “Dad, Mom, yer the best”. The first time I bought some, a teenage clerk spotted my quizzical fondling of the bullies and announced, without discretion, “THEY'RE BULL PENISES”, and then, as an aside, she suggested, “dogs love’m. But don’t leave’m out in the yard, cuz they’ll reconstitute, and then, they’re totally gross!” I have noticed that not all bullies we have taken home are equally pungent, but most, to put it mildly, might require the additional purchase of one of those tacky plug in style air fresheners, the kind that can beat down any raunchy smell in favor of some scent like “”Overwhelming Pine” or “Wildflower Fields My Ass”.
We employ a wonderful Ukrainian couple, who come to our home twice a month, for several hours, to help us keep our house in order. They clean, especially giving our son Blaine’s room a thorough going over, which would be worth the money even if they didn’t do anything else. We deeply appreciate their help.
Each time they arrive, the dogs swarm them, in our foyer, as Cyrillic nouns and adjectives fly. Some minutes later, after the dogs have calmed, they go about their business, and as a rule, I guess you could say that they pick up their share of dog toys, which have been strewn anew, around the house, since the last time they cleaned. We have several baskets for said toys, and by the time they leave, each basket is in it’s spot, neatly teeming with toys. Within hours of their departure, however, someone, some dang dog, has tipped the baskets over, and the cycle begins again.
I am certain that our Ukrainian friends, who come from poverty in Eastern Europe, must think we are out of our minds, with this pet obsession of ours, including all of our dog toys and pampering. They are so kind, and are obviously fond of us, and we trust them implicitly as they move from room to room, collecting dust bunnies and restacking my lyric sheets. Sometimes, if they have run out of a product, or, perhaps, need a new package of vacuum bags, they will call me from my office to assist. “Reek”, they might call, and when I arrive, they relate their need, in ever so broken English. For the most part, given the language barrier, we do a pretty good job of understanding each other.
On one recent visit, however, I must say that I fell out of my league, out of my cultural context, in the understanding department, when I was called for a consultation. As I sat at my office desk, our female housekeeper stood at my door, and uttered my name. I turned to give her my complete attention. I could see that she was holding a “Bully” in her left hand, and one second after our eyes met, raised the bully up toward me, and posed the question....”Ees nah-chew-rahl?”, and then, before I could say one word, and I swear this actually happened, raised the bully further, up to within about one-half inch of her left nostril, and without reservation, put a humongus and deeply drawn nose hit on that bully, it’s gnarled end still dripping with dog spittle, slimy and white, and surely bearing the utterly gamey fragrance we have come to recognize from several rooms away. As she placed it back to her side, awaiting my answer, I think I saw her eyes tear up. “Yes”, I replied, and then, as she retreated, I thanked God that she had asked no further questions. Anyway, in my two years of Cyrillic study in college, I don’t believe I ever came across the translation for bull penis.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Friday, July 29, 2005
The Airstream Chronicles.............Umatilla Indian Reservation, Oregon
When we travel as a family, Marie and I, and our son Blaine, we usually start with a loose itinerary, something we can all agree on. Maybe I propose that we go east of the mountains, since it’s May, and we will find better weather there. Agreed. Maybe Marie has been itching to see some museum or other attraction, maybe one that received a grant from the trust she works for. Sure, Blaine and I say, we’re up for that. And then, in an effort to sweeten the pot for Blaine, we might find a sporting event, or a chess event, or maybe..........a CASINO!
Such was the case in June 2005, when we trekked, with Marie’s mom, and Marie’s sister’s family, to one of our favourite spots in the world, Eastern Oregon, to visit a few museums, and the “Wildhorse Casino”, on the Umatilla Indian Reservation, near Pendleton, Oregon.
The drive to Eastern Oregon, down the Columbia River Gorge, past Multnomah Falls, Hood River, The Dalles, Arlington, and others, is a beautiful straight and flat drive, just right for pulling an Airstream. However, this time we had decided to first stop at the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, further inland, to see the Warm Springs Museum there, so we drove some mighty hilly backroads to get there. We stayed at the less than scenic KOA in Madras, but we had time to visit and barbecue, and stare into
space, so who’s complaining? Plus, there was a comfortable, accessible cabin for Blaine. But because we had booked there, specifically for the accessible cabin, we were rather shocked to find that the campground’s main bathroom was totally inaccessble. There IS a ramp at the bathroom....leading up to one tall step.....oops! During our first day there, we struck out for the Warm Springs Museum, which we found very well done. And then, Blaine bought everything he could find in the gift store which contained huckleberries, don’t ask me why. The second day, we stopped at the Sherman County Museum in Moro, Oregon, smack in the middle of wheat country. The Sherman County Museum has received multiple awards for being a thorough and interesting museum, and we were not disappointed.
We travelled more backroads on our third day out, and ended up at the Wildhorse Casino RV park. Blaine and his Grandma got a room in the hotel, and Marie and I pulled into our space at the park, which is a new park, and although the ammenities are complete, at this time, with immature plants, it lacks privacy. But who cares, we came to GAMBLE!
Having been disabled since birth, with an assortment of disabilities, my step-son Blaine is a hero to me, with all he has to deal with. No one is really sure exactly how his brain works, but it seems okay to me, and if you have a math problem, give it to Blaine. And when it comes to any kind of math based game, chess, poker, blackjack, the man is good. As in great. So I get a kick out of watching him wheel into the casino, and pull into the low wheelchair accessible blackjack table (thank you very much Wildhorse Casino!), and as some of the other players let him wiggle in, I can sometimes feel in the air an attitude of, oh, the poor disabled kid, here to lose his money, awwwwwwww.
Strictly speaking, those guys don’t know who they’re dealin’ with. I have very seldon seen Blaine leave a casino without some of the casino’s money in his pocket. While I throw away my money on the slots and maybe a bit of Roulette, Blaine is busy takin’ the house down. Disabled my ass.
And before we hit the road for home, we made one last stop at the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute on the Umatilla Reservation, http://www.tamastslikt.com/press.asp?id=98, one of the finest museums I have ever encountered. There are original treaty documents. There are fascinating displays of all kinds and including the true stories of the Indian’s struggle in Oregon as told by Indians. The building itself is stunningly beautiful. Out back, they are creating a real Indian Village, using skills handed down for centuries. There is a reference library, and a performance hall, where we watched ancient dances performed by Umatilla tribe members. Of course there is the requisite restaurant, and a very nice, large gift shop. This one gets thumbs up from Ric and Marie.
Some photos of our Airstream are here
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Such was the case in June 2005, when we trekked, with Marie’s mom, and Marie’s sister’s family, to one of our favourite spots in the world, Eastern Oregon, to visit a few museums, and the “Wildhorse Casino”, on the Umatilla Indian Reservation, near Pendleton, Oregon.
The drive to Eastern Oregon, down the Columbia River Gorge, past Multnomah Falls, Hood River, The Dalles, Arlington, and others, is a beautiful straight and flat drive, just right for pulling an Airstream. However, this time we had decided to first stop at the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, further inland, to see the Warm Springs Museum there, so we drove some mighty hilly backroads to get there. We stayed at the less than scenic KOA in Madras, but we had time to visit and barbecue, and stare into
space, so who’s complaining? Plus, there was a comfortable, accessible cabin for Blaine. But because we had booked there, specifically for the accessible cabin, we were rather shocked to find that the campground’s main bathroom was totally inaccessble. There IS a ramp at the bathroom....leading up to one tall step.....oops! During our first day there, we struck out for the Warm Springs Museum, which we found very well done. And then, Blaine bought everything he could find in the gift store which contained huckleberries, don’t ask me why. The second day, we stopped at the Sherman County Museum in Moro, Oregon, smack in the middle of wheat country. The Sherman County Museum has received multiple awards for being a thorough and interesting museum, and we were not disappointed.
We travelled more backroads on our third day out, and ended up at the Wildhorse Casino RV park. Blaine and his Grandma got a room in the hotel, and Marie and I pulled into our space at the park, which is a new park, and although the ammenities are complete, at this time, with immature plants, it lacks privacy. But who cares, we came to GAMBLE!
Having been disabled since birth, with an assortment of disabilities, my step-son Blaine is a hero to me, with all he has to deal with. No one is really sure exactly how his brain works, but it seems okay to me, and if you have a math problem, give it to Blaine. And when it comes to any kind of math based game, chess, poker, blackjack, the man is good. As in great. So I get a kick out of watching him wheel into the casino, and pull into the low wheelchair accessible blackjack table (thank you very much Wildhorse Casino!), and as some of the other players let him wiggle in, I can sometimes feel in the air an attitude of, oh, the poor disabled kid, here to lose his money, awwwwwwww.
Strictly speaking, those guys don’t know who they’re dealin’ with. I have very seldon seen Blaine leave a casino without some of the casino’s money in his pocket. While I throw away my money on the slots and maybe a bit of Roulette, Blaine is busy takin’ the house down. Disabled my ass.
And before we hit the road for home, we made one last stop at the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute on the Umatilla Reservation, http://www.tamastslikt.com/press.asp?id=98, one of the finest museums I have ever encountered. There are original treaty documents. There are fascinating displays of all kinds and including the true stories of the Indian’s struggle in Oregon as told by Indians. The building itself is stunningly beautiful. Out back, they are creating a real Indian Village, using skills handed down for centuries. There is a reference library, and a performance hall, where we watched ancient dances performed by Umatilla tribe members. Of course there is the requisite restaurant, and a very nice, large gift shop. This one gets thumbs up from Ric and Marie.
Some photos of our Airstream are here
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Saturday, July 23, 2005
The Institute Of Sanitation Technology
Sometime in 1971, my buddy Cac, who was the official leader of our band, The Morning Reign, announced that he was leaving the group. Cac had graduated from Willamette University, and he had received an offer he couldn’t refuse, working in concert promotions.
I had been contemplating the future myself, since I was not all that happy, travelling as much as we did. I was so in love with my baby daughter, Stacey, that I thought it might be a good time for me to move on too. So, Cac and I quit the band together. It was a bit sad, since we had both invested our hearts and minds so deeply into that endeavor for over 5 years. But we both knew it was time.
We were living in Seattle, and my wife at the time, my daughter’s Mom, Donna, was working for Safeway. But for the first time ever, I was going to have to get a real job. I was 24 years old, I had two kids, and absolutely no idea what to do.
In reading the want ads, I spied an ad that read, “Come to The Institute of Sanitation Technology, Guaranteed Job After Graduation”. In the days that followed, I drove there to check it out, and found that the people who owned the school also had a janitorial company. That was how they guaranteed jobs. I signed up.
I must say, one would think that being a janitor isn’t much more than emptying waste baskets and cleaning toilets. And mostly, I was just after that guaranteed job. But I was surprised to discover that there actually was a curriculum, hands on experience with machines, and lessons about cleaning agents and other substances. There was a section on all the different types of flooring that one might find in a building, and the correct way to clean them, which agents to use, etc. What I thought was going to be sort of a joke, was actually quite a good learning experience. I finished the school, which was about a month, got a job with the company, and for the first time in my life, was supplying my own health benefits. I remained a janitor for about a year, and then found a job as a baker’s apprentice.
In the years to come, it was remarkable how many times I came to need the experience I had gotten as a graduate of “The Institute of Sanitation Technology”. For example, when I built my first bakery, I saved a ton of money by buying my own floor machine, and stripping and waxing the floor on a regular basis by myself. And believe it or not, there is a right way and wrong way to mop, with a big 28 oz. mop, and that little bit of knowledge made my job so much easier over the next twenty years of owning a bakery. Of course I passed on my knowledge of how to clean things properly to my employees.
My friend Stan, who came to work for me as apprentice in 1977 and ended up buying my bakery from me in 1995, used to make light of my “sanitation education”, when I would brag about it to him by stating, “Oh yeah that’s right Ric, I forgot, you did attend "The Institute of Sanitation Technology “At” Seattle”. Very funny. But all in all, I think my experience there suggests that, if you are learning something in school, just about anything, it will probably come back to help you later.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
I had been contemplating the future myself, since I was not all that happy, travelling as much as we did. I was so in love with my baby daughter, Stacey, that I thought it might be a good time for me to move on too. So, Cac and I quit the band together. It was a bit sad, since we had both invested our hearts and minds so deeply into that endeavor for over 5 years. But we both knew it was time.
We were living in Seattle, and my wife at the time, my daughter’s Mom, Donna, was working for Safeway. But for the first time ever, I was going to have to get a real job. I was 24 years old, I had two kids, and absolutely no idea what to do.
In reading the want ads, I spied an ad that read, “Come to The Institute of Sanitation Technology, Guaranteed Job After Graduation”. In the days that followed, I drove there to check it out, and found that the people who owned the school also had a janitorial company. That was how they guaranteed jobs. I signed up.
I must say, one would think that being a janitor isn’t much more than emptying waste baskets and cleaning toilets. And mostly, I was just after that guaranteed job. But I was surprised to discover that there actually was a curriculum, hands on experience with machines, and lessons about cleaning agents and other substances. There was a section on all the different types of flooring that one might find in a building, and the correct way to clean them, which agents to use, etc. What I thought was going to be sort of a joke, was actually quite a good learning experience. I finished the school, which was about a month, got a job with the company, and for the first time in my life, was supplying my own health benefits. I remained a janitor for about a year, and then found a job as a baker’s apprentice.
In the years to come, it was remarkable how many times I came to need the experience I had gotten as a graduate of “The Institute of Sanitation Technology”. For example, when I built my first bakery, I saved a ton of money by buying my own floor machine, and stripping and waxing the floor on a regular basis by myself. And believe it or not, there is a right way and wrong way to mop, with a big 28 oz. mop, and that little bit of knowledge made my job so much easier over the next twenty years of owning a bakery. Of course I passed on my knowledge of how to clean things properly to my employees.
My friend Stan, who came to work for me as apprentice in 1977 and ended up buying my bakery from me in 1995, used to make light of my “sanitation education”, when I would brag about it to him by stating, “Oh yeah that’s right Ric, I forgot, you did attend "The Institute of Sanitation Technology “At” Seattle”. Very funny. But all in all, I think my experience there suggests that, if you are learning something in school, just about anything, it will probably come back to help you later.
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
The Rustler
In the Summer of 1975, a few months before I opened my first bakery, “Richard’s Bakery”, in Tualatin, Oregon, I was hurtin’ for work. It was taking longer than I had planned to get the bakery opened, with construction and legal issues, so I was ready to take just about any kind of piece work, a day here or there, just to keep a few bucks coming in. I worked several different jobs, not all of them as a baker. But for several weeks, right before my bakery was ready to go, I worked at an Albertson’s Bakery in S.E. Portland, at 39th and Holgate, which is currently a Trader Joe’s. I replaced vacationing staff, even including the manager of the bakery, whose name was Hubert Smiley.
I was still quite young, 27, and although I was capable of most of the requirements of that job, there were a few difficult moments, even in the short time I was there. For example, when I was called on to decorate a wedding cake, I admit standing back and looking at it and pitying the couple who had ordered their wedding cake at a grocery store bakery. Later, I became a much better cake decorator.
But one certain faux pas is especially worth mentioning, as I recall here.
One Sunday, working alone, I found an order on the spindle for a few hundred “poor boy” or “sub sandwich” style buns. Apparently this was a standing order for a Portland restaurant named “The Rustler”, who picked up these buns once a week, froze them and pulled them out as needed during the week, for steak sandwiches and other delights. I remember having to call Hubert Smiley at his home to ask a few questions, like, for example, where is the recipe?
The “formula” (the baker’s word for “recipe”), was a rather standard white dough, and also called for a small addition of “egg shade” which is a powder or liquid, and is used to color the dough to a rich yellow, as it might look with the addition of eggs. But when I got to that part, there was no egg shade to be found. I called Mr. Smiley back to ask him what to do, but there was no answer.
Ok, I sorta freaked. I should have just left the dough white, but instead, I found a regular yellow food color in the cake decorating department, and squeezed the bottle into the dough. A little looked pretty good, but too light. I squeezed again, and then again. Suddenly, as the dough spun in the mixer, I realized I had a bit of a problem on my hands, as in, yellow Easter egg colored bread dough. 100 pounds or so of, well, flourescent yellow dough. Shit.
What to do? Damn. If I start over, I will be here all day, given the necessary fermentation time, plus I will have wasted all these ingredients. Shit. Okay lessee. I could add something to tone down this yellow. Hmmmm, okay, I’ll use the “caramel color”, which is usually used to make the whole wheat or rye bread darker, and sometimes used in maple bar icing. I put a “glug” into the dough, and spun it again. Not enough. Another glug. And there, before my eyes, in the shiny 80 quart bowl, was.....
I don’t know how to explain it really. I guess it would be fair to say that the color went from Easter egg yellow, in a matter of seconds, to a color, well, a color unknown to nature. Sort of an eye popping yellowish burnt sienna, something, but, oh, not a color one might relish biting into.
The amount of work it takes for one baker to take a dough this big to the bench and make several hundred buns is daunting. But I had already made the doughnuts, iced the cakes, made the french bread, the wheat bread, the danish, several icings, brownies, on and on, and so, there in the Albertson’s Bakery on 39th and Holgate, on that sunny Summer day in 1975, I made the decison to continue. I went ahead and made the buns with that awful dough. For The Rustler.
When they were done baking, they didn’t look half bad. They were a nice golden brown, indistinguishable from the Rustler’s regular order. But when you looked inside, uh, there was that color, that tan bread, all ready for a nice piece of medium rare sirloin. NOT.
In the days that followed, I recall that the Rustler made a call to Hubert Smiley, to make their disatisfaction known. However, they did use up all the buns. And in the Fall of that year, just after I opened my store, The Rustler closed down. I have always hoped that the demise of that eatery, and my yellowish burnt sienna colored poor boys, was just a coincidence.
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I was still quite young, 27, and although I was capable of most of the requirements of that job, there were a few difficult moments, even in the short time I was there. For example, when I was called on to decorate a wedding cake, I admit standing back and looking at it and pitying the couple who had ordered their wedding cake at a grocery store bakery. Later, I became a much better cake decorator.
But one certain faux pas is especially worth mentioning, as I recall here.
One Sunday, working alone, I found an order on the spindle for a few hundred “poor boy” or “sub sandwich” style buns. Apparently this was a standing order for a Portland restaurant named “The Rustler”, who picked up these buns once a week, froze them and pulled them out as needed during the week, for steak sandwiches and other delights. I remember having to call Hubert Smiley at his home to ask a few questions, like, for example, where is the recipe?
The “formula” (the baker’s word for “recipe”), was a rather standard white dough, and also called for a small addition of “egg shade” which is a powder or liquid, and is used to color the dough to a rich yellow, as it might look with the addition of eggs. But when I got to that part, there was no egg shade to be found. I called Mr. Smiley back to ask him what to do, but there was no answer.
Ok, I sorta freaked. I should have just left the dough white, but instead, I found a regular yellow food color in the cake decorating department, and squeezed the bottle into the dough. A little looked pretty good, but too light. I squeezed again, and then again. Suddenly, as the dough spun in the mixer, I realized I had a bit of a problem on my hands, as in, yellow Easter egg colored bread dough. 100 pounds or so of, well, flourescent yellow dough. Shit.
What to do? Damn. If I start over, I will be here all day, given the necessary fermentation time, plus I will have wasted all these ingredients. Shit. Okay lessee. I could add something to tone down this yellow. Hmmmm, okay, I’ll use the “caramel color”, which is usually used to make the whole wheat or rye bread darker, and sometimes used in maple bar icing. I put a “glug” into the dough, and spun it again. Not enough. Another glug. And there, before my eyes, in the shiny 80 quart bowl, was.....
I don’t know how to explain it really. I guess it would be fair to say that the color went from Easter egg yellow, in a matter of seconds, to a color, well, a color unknown to nature. Sort of an eye popping yellowish burnt sienna, something, but, oh, not a color one might relish biting into.
The amount of work it takes for one baker to take a dough this big to the bench and make several hundred buns is daunting. But I had already made the doughnuts, iced the cakes, made the french bread, the wheat bread, the danish, several icings, brownies, on and on, and so, there in the Albertson’s Bakery on 39th and Holgate, on that sunny Summer day in 1975, I made the decison to continue. I went ahead and made the buns with that awful dough. For The Rustler.
When they were done baking, they didn’t look half bad. They were a nice golden brown, indistinguishable from the Rustler’s regular order. But when you looked inside, uh, there was that color, that tan bread, all ready for a nice piece of medium rare sirloin. NOT.
In the days that followed, I recall that the Rustler made a call to Hubert Smiley, to make their disatisfaction known. However, they did use up all the buns. And in the Fall of that year, just after I opened my store, The Rustler closed down. I have always hoped that the demise of that eatery, and my yellowish burnt sienna colored poor boys, was just a coincidence.
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Sunday, July 17, 2005
Michael Jackson
My Michael Jackson story contains no shattering news about seeing him fondle someone, as is the custom, lately, for those who tell their stories of Michael. Mine is from the much more innocent and positive Michael days, circa 1969.
My old band, The Morning Reign, had a recording date set up at Don Costa Studios, in Los Angeles, to do vocals on a few tracks, most notably, a song titled “Can I Believe In You”, written by Dennis Lambert, who already had many hit records to his credit. We were excited to be doing a project with him. We met in the morning, and recorded for most of the day. As vocal sessions go, we sang, sang, and then sang some more, trying to get it just right. I sang the flip side of the record, which was called “Tomorrow Morning’s Love” (Nelson-Fink), and our guitarist Gene, with his a great sounding pop music voice, sang the Lambert song, which we were certain was our ticket to stardom. Or one-hit wonderness anyway.
When Gene was singing his part, over and over, I went from room to room in the building, checking it out, trying to stay out of trouble, but snooping nonetheless. In one room, which was about about 12’x12 ‘, I came upon a music stand, holding a large piece of poster board, with a passage from the Jackson 5 song, "ABC". It was the verse where Michael, as a boy, sang the part that went “TEE-TEE-Teacher”. It was written out, by hand, in large print, so someone could read it easily from a distance, five feet or so. I was dying to know what exactly had gone on there, and later asked one of the engineers. “Oh yeah”, he said, matter of factly, “Michael did the vocals for that song here." I probably could have taken home that crummy poster board with a polite request.
Gods of eBay, where were ya when I needed ya?
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
My old band, The Morning Reign, had a recording date set up at Don Costa Studios, in Los Angeles, to do vocals on a few tracks, most notably, a song titled “Can I Believe In You”, written by Dennis Lambert, who already had many hit records to his credit. We were excited to be doing a project with him. We met in the morning, and recorded for most of the day. As vocal sessions go, we sang, sang, and then sang some more, trying to get it just right. I sang the flip side of the record, which was called “Tomorrow Morning’s Love” (Nelson-Fink), and our guitarist Gene, with his a great sounding pop music voice, sang the Lambert song, which we were certain was our ticket to stardom. Or one-hit wonderness anyway.
When Gene was singing his part, over and over, I went from room to room in the building, checking it out, trying to stay out of trouble, but snooping nonetheless. In one room, which was about about 12’x12 ‘, I came upon a music stand, holding a large piece of poster board, with a passage from the Jackson 5 song, "ABC". It was the verse where Michael, as a boy, sang the part that went “TEE-TEE-Teacher”. It was written out, by hand, in large print, so someone could read it easily from a distance, five feet or so. I was dying to know what exactly had gone on there, and later asked one of the engineers. “Oh yeah”, he said, matter of factly, “Michael did the vocals for that song here." I probably could have taken home that crummy poster board with a polite request.
Gods of eBay, where were ya when I needed ya?
Visit Ric Seaberg's Website
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Chestnut
In late 2000, when I was recovering from a heart attack, Marie and I began to discuss the merits of dog ownership. Mostly, we just felt like we wanted a dog. We also spoke of the value of having a dog for our son Blaine, who, at the time, was home almost exclusively, given his disabilities and the fact that he loves it at home too. I mean, with DSL, and oodles of cable channels, (and a step-dad to razz constantly), what more could a guy want? Besides a dog, I mean.
I once owned an Australian Terrier, who I named Toffa, after a childhood friend of one of my daughters. I love Terriers, but we thought we might go for a more calm, big lug of a dog, like a Lab. We dug out the dog book to do our research, to find a dog that would fit into our world, and yep, we decided a Lab would be the way to go.
We found a Lab breeder, and went out to visit her kennel, where she had a new litter of Chocolate Lab puppies. Talk about cute! The puppies weren’t quite old enough to leave their Mom yet, so we made a plan to come back later in the month. We put a sold sign on a little male. We kept quiet at home, intending to surprise Blaine.
On the appointed day, we loaded Blaine up in the van with the promise of a drive in the country to be followed by lunch. But oops, we detoured to the kennel, and before long, there Blaine was, sitting in the rear of the van, one smiley twenty-something, with a Chocolate Lab puppy in his lap, and me, the guy who cries at commercials, with tears in my eyes.
We all three contributed then, as the days went by, to the “name the dog” conversation, but I think it was Marie who ultimately came up with the winner, which I thought was a great choice, “Chestnut”. We went forward then, buying every dog toy known to man, a bed, a kennel, on and on. Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t spendy to have a dog. And then we fell in love with him.
Chestnut was a great puppy, totally cute, rambunctious, hungry, all things Lab. A typical Lab tennis ball chaser, a dog who loved his walks, and a dog who could waste your shoes with the best of ‘em. As the house husband with a heart to heal, I was appointed chief dog walker. Chessy and I left the house several times a day. As he grew, our walks became longer, and by the time he was 6 months old, he was dragging me, as my heart got stronger, to the dog park about a mile away, twice a day. That’s 4 miles, every day. I am sure it was one of the things that contributed to my improving health. One might say, in fact, that my relationship with Chessy was a major factor in my recovery. I remember thinking, as he pulled me along 24th, past Lincoln and over to the park, how lucky I was to have my dog.
At 14 months old, however, Chessy got sick. He had just completed obedience training, and he had done well. But he was exibiting several different nasty symptoms of illness, and our worst fears were confirmed. Chessy, at such a young age, was going to die, from cancer.
At first, when you find out that your dog is going to die, you can’t believe it. So on the day that we were advised of Chestnut’s fate, we took him home. We made an appointment with a specialist, and I took Chessy for a walk to the park. He was still able to walk all the way, and he even pulled a bit. I knelt to praise him a bunch, as he basked in my approval. At the park, I tossed the tennis ball as usual, and he would run for it. But when he got there, about 30 yards away, he just stood there, and then turned back to look at me, long faced, energyless. It broke my heart.
Several days later, at the specialist’s office, we put Chestnut to sleep. For those of you who have never put a dog you love to sleep before, it sucks. For those of you who have, I offer my sympathy. We drove home silently, Marie, Blaine and I. These days, we speak lovingly of Chestnut often. I know that Marie and Blaine had a special bond with Chestnut, and that it was ever so difficult to see him go. But for me, it almost feels like he came into my life to help me recover from the heart attack, and then move on. We loved him so much, and he is deeply missed.
When he was a puppy, I wrote a song titled “We Got A Lab” which appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”. Blaine “calls the dog” during the solo of the song. Click here to listen.
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